These Hands
by LSgrimm91
Summary: Jack considers the two hands lying in front of him.


**A/Ramble: Another short diddy that pestered me at work. Jack compares two very different hands. Not my usual style, but I hope you guys like it. Unbetaed, cause I'm gonna hit up Adi with lots of 'Syracuse' and 'MYOTOS' this weekend. Sam/Jack (duh...), with Jack/Sara history. Enjoy!**

**~ These Hands ~**

When he looked at the two hands resting on his stomach as he lay on his couch, he knew they'd done many things in this life. He considered the right one. Sure, he had odd joints at the thumbs and the skin was rough and calloused from palm to fingertip.

But it was the hand his father had kissed when he was born. It was this hand that smeared apple juice on his mother's glass covered coffee table when he stood up for the first time. The one that forget to use the brakes on his old pushbike, sending him flying over the handlebars and onto the road, resulting in the scar that now lined his chin.

And it was this hand that he offered to Penny Sims during his junior prom when he asked her to dance with him. It was the same hand that the principal shook when he managed to graduate high school at seventeen. It was the one that gingerly touched the controls of the old Piper Cherokee he had flown in Oklahoma during summer vacation; when he fell in love with flying. It was the one that signed the application form to join the United States Air Force. This was the hand that saluted the commandant of the Academy when he graduated.

Jack could remember this hand touching a pistol for the first time, before he knew the consequences of handling such a weapon. But it was the hand that reached out and picked up an orange that Sara had dropped, and he so kindly picked up for her. That was when he met her. God, he was so young. Not only physically, but in every other way imaginable.

Not long after that day, he used this hand to pull the trigger on his rifle and take another man's life. The first of many. It was the one he used to touch his own arm, to find it covered in blood. He'd been shot. That was when his hands began to feel dirty.

They felt cleaner when he used that hand to take Sara's and he asked her to marry him. It was the hand that held hers when he stood at the altar and promised to love her, honour her and keep her. In good times. Even in _woe_. These hands that held his baby boy a few hours after he was born. They shook so badly. It was these hands that clapped loudly as he sat on the floor in front of Charlie, encouraging him to take his first steps. He'd held Charlie and kissed him when he arrived. God, he was so happy that day.

But then again, it was the hand that did _not_ close the lock on the box containing his Beretta. It was the one that pushed the front door open and pulled him up the stairs after he heard the gun shot. They were the fingers he pressed to his son's neck, but never again would feel a pulse. It was that bloodied hand that he used to pull his shocked wife into his arms so she would be spared the sight of their dead son...

He could still feel the dirt in his hands that he dropped into Charlie's grave while the priest spoke those words; 'Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.'

That cool metal of his pistol, the same one that killed his son, tempted this hand and for a moment, Jack considered using it on himself. But that hand redeemed itself when it pushed the gun under Charlie's pillow, so he could listen to those men from General West's office. He remembered that day. He'd cut his hair, shaved and put his uniform back on. All in all, the best decision he could have made.

And to think, this hand could have killed thousands of Abydonians. But it was the one that taught Skaara to salute. God bless that kid. He'd given Jack everything. Well, maybe not everything, but enough to feel again. He could distinctly remember this hand sending a bomb to Ra's spaceship. With his regards.

But it was also the hand that opened the door to his house on his return, only to find divorce papers on the kitchen counter. He loved Sara. A part of him still does now. But it wasn't enough. It wasn't the kind of love that saw you through every kind of woe. He knew it was over. It was everything after Charlie's death that destroyed his marriage. The arguments. The blame. The guilt. So it was with this hand that he signed the papers.

And then he'd been recalled to active duty. And it was with the hand that sat on his stomach that he returned the eager salute of then _Captain_ Samantha Carter. Talk about a snowball effect. He was sure he would have used this hand if he took her up on her offer to arm wrestle. Everything changed after that. This hand did some very cool things after he decided to join SG-1. And some more poignant things too. And countless dreadful things.

Not to sound crude, but this hand and the lovely, blonde astrophysicist shared a unique history. Like reaching for his gun as he watched his good Captain fight a Mongolian chieftain. To the death. Because he would have used that hand to let all hell break loose if she was injured. It only took a few days to realise she was as tough as nails. He'd handed her a bible and told her the truths he learned about taking life. He had used this hand to silence his 2IC when they were captured by Hathor. Not that they ever talked about it, but this was the hand that had caressed her cheek one night, when they were alone in an underground factory. He couldn't remember much, but he did remember that. He had beaten at a control panel on a Goa'uld mother ship with this hand to try and save her from death. And then he had used that hand to Zat her. Twice. This was the hand that offered his resignation to Hammond during a time loop, just so he could kiss her. It was totally worth it.

Then things changed. She met someone else. But she was still there. Just within reach, but he couldn't touch her. But you know what? This was the hand that pulled her into his arms after Janet died. Not Pete's. His hand. And this was the hand that ached to touch her one last time when he woke up on Thor's ship, to find out she had been captured by Fifth. Technically, that was his fault, because it was with this hand, that he told Sam to set the timer for three minutes. Telling her to betray Fifth. She was correct: Fifth learnt betrayal from her. But only because he had ordered her to do it.

It was the hand that held that little black box when she showed him the ring Pete gave to her. He should have thrown it away and told her not to do it.

It was with this hand, he made love to Kerry, and for a moment, he wished it was someone else. Someone he couldn't have. But for once, he got it right. He used this hand to wrap an arm around Sam's shoulders and promise that he would always be there for her. And she'd held it. They were within the view of other military personnel, the Tok'ra and her father, but she pressed this hand to her cheek and said 'thank you for being her for me.'

Yesterday, he had used this hand to brush her tears away. He told her it was okay. He told her that he'd never stopped caring about her. He told her what she meant to him. He told her she was beautiful, inside and out. It was the hand that cupped her cheek and guided her lips to his. Finally.

Now, Jack considered the other hand resting on his stomach. It was not his left hand, but hers. The one gently brushing over his shirt as she cuddled into his side while they lay together on the couch. The one so marvellously manicured and maintained.

Being right-handed; this was not the hand that saluted him on their first meeting. Nor is it the hand that blew up a sun. It's not the one that wielded a knife to protect herself from Turghan. It's not the hand that killed countless Jaffa and Goa'uld over the years. It's not the hand that had touched his cheek in Antarctica, when she whispered 'Jack, please!' Please don't let yourself die. Please don't give up. Please stay. Jack, please.

After eight years, he could touch this hand of hers. He could play with the fingers and trace the lines of the palm. If a woman could launch a thousand ships, Jack believed that woman was the one who owned these hands. Space ships, that is. The ones that had touched him from head to toe last night. The ones that helped him breathe. And feel. And, if it's not so cliché: live.

However, this was the hand that he has seen wearing an engagement ring. Twice. One was Pete's. He's glad that was gone. The other was not this hand, _specifically_, but it did belong to a Samantha Carter. And she was wearing his ring. He wondered how many of these hands in other universes bore his wedding or engagement ring. He wondered if this one ever would. Would this hand ever touch her stomach while she carried their child? Was that too much to hope for? Probably.

Christ, these two hands have done some incredible things. Who knows what they could do now they were together.

~ SJ ~

**And so ends this slightly poetic, dialogue-less, piece of oddness. I hope you enjoyed it. I certain enjoyed writing it. Reviews: you know I want them :)**


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